Learning Not to Drown Read Free

early and a job lined up? Isn’t that a good thing? Even if Luke can’t come home right away?
    She’s angry enough that I probably should keep quiet, but she got to talk to Luke and I didn’t.
    â€œHow’s Luke?” I ask.
    â€œFine.” She drops the pan onto the stovetop. The clank echoes, filling the room.
    â€œHe’s getting out early? That’s good, right?”
    â€œYes.” She turns the burner on high; the flames shoot up, engulfing the steel in wisps of blue.
    â€œWhen will he be home?” I dare to ask, stacking the plates as I put them away.
    â€œEventually.”
    I’m tired of her one-word answers. “What kind of job did he get? Did he say when he was going to call back? I wanted to talk to him.” I pout.
    â€œYou can’t have everything you want,” she practically yells at me. Olive oil and garlic and onions hit the pan, hissing from the heat. I clamp my mouth shut and start to load the bowls and cups piled in the sink, my own anger brewing. Mom could at least answer a few questions for me. “Speaking of which,” she continues, “you will not be going with Drea and her mother this summer. No ifs, ands, or buts. And don’t even think of asking your father. The subject is closed. Finish the dishes and get out of my kitchen.”
    My mother continues to bang cabinet doors and slam drawers shut as she cooks. One call from Lukecould have put Mom in a better mood, then maybe I could have convinced her to let me go on this trip. I feel my anger shifting from Mom to Luke. He set her off and ruined my chances.
    On the way out of the kitchen, I make eye contact with Skeleton. He raises his hand in salutation. Just a little wave to let me know he’s here. He’s been watching. I ignore him and hurry to my room.
    The ruckus in the kitchen slowly quiets to, at last, silence. I know the chicken is in the oven, the rice is simmering, the broccoli steaming. And I also know that Mom is now in the living room, standing in front of her Christmas ornament collection. Handcrafted by her father out of glass, silver, and crystal over open flame. Etched and tapped with fine details. Papa used the skills he had practiced for more than ten years to create the perfect five ornaments as a gift for Granny when my mother was born. And when Luke was born, Granny passed the gift along to Mom. She leaves them out on the oak bookcase to admire year-round, displayed on a graceful miniature silver tree. Just above eye level, the perfect height for Mom to be able to unhook each ornament with ease and meticulously shine it before gently rehanging each treasure. She looks insane when she does it—the ritual of laying out five different cloths and glass cleaners and vinegar, the tin of silver polish, the white gloves, the way the corners of her mouth tip up just slightly as her brow tilts down in concentration. Peter used to lick his fingers and leave a single print on each ornament. Then the two of us would bet each otherM&M’s on how long it would take her to make them perfect again.
    I know she is staring at all five ornaments now, noting the dust spots and smudges. She is checking her watch, maybe looking over her shoulder at the kitchen. The risk of ruining dinner will pull her away. But if Peter and I were to make a bet right now, I’d put ten M&M’s down that the ornaments will be gleaming by tomorrow morning.
    Sitting on my bed, I glare at the stack of college brochures on my desk. It’s ridiculous that Mom won’t let me go on the trip. She probably thinks that by keeping me home, I’ll end up doing exactly what she wants: living here and commuting to Crappy CC or Shithole State. It’s not going to happen. . . . But neither is the trip. No way will Mom change her mind. If Luke hadn’t called, maybe I could have persuaded her. Or if he had called and said exactly what Mom wanted to hear: “I’m out